


Courage and Spirit

by vaenire



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Fictional Religion & Theology, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Really First Kiss, Religion, Shallow Philosophy Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 09:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaenire/pseuds/vaenire
Summary: Baze flinched. “What do you mean?”“I mean, this hymn,” he said, holding up his hymnal, “was about how being loved gives strength, and returning it gives courage.”Baze frowned deeper. “Platonic love.”“It doesn’t say platonic,” Chirrut argued.“It doesn’t not say platonic.”“So my interpretation is as valid as yours.”Baze grit his teeth. “Your interpretation is indulgent.”“And I think someone can become so comfortable with the rules and boundaries they’ve set, following those rules becomes indulgent.”





	Courage and Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShipArmada (SarahSelene)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahSelene/gifts).



> happy holidays @shiparmada! this is my gift for the holiday exchange :) it was very self indulgent but also i haven't written these boys in so long. hope you like it!

The temple compound was anything but intuitive. The dormitories were scattered here and there, organized according to a monk's level of duans, except for the dozens of exceptions to the rule. Sometimes there was an age hierarchy-- an older monk would be placed with Guardians rather than with the young monks, for example. Sometimes an orphan would request to be close to cousins, or someone of a particular species would have special requirements or requests. It was entirely up to the discretion of the Elders. 

In short, despite Baze having attained the level of Guardian now several months ago, and having three years senior on Chirrut, the young monk had somehow managed to secure the dorm room just a few doors down the hall from Baze.

And the monk used this to his advantage constantly. Sometimes he would wait for Baze to come home and would insistently invite him out to the city. Once he figured out how to jiggle Baze’s door open and wait for him there. Other times he would simply come by for homework help. He needed help finding ingredients in the market, or he just wanted to share a joke he had heard somewhere. In any case, he always had an excuse to get into Baze’s hair.

Baze often wondered how Chirrut managed to get his current room. He was a junior monk, known for making trouble, yet he managed to get a nice room with a nice view in the Guardian wing of the temple. Everyone else in the hall were full fledged Guardians, with years of experience, and only Chirrut had yet to complete his training. He was the only  _ exception _ .

Maybe it was his troublemaking that had him placed in the Guardian dorm. Closer for the Elder brothers and sisters to keep an eye on him. Where it was not as easy to sneak out at night to go stargazing, or climb down the tree into the City to go to the night markets and bring back sweets for the younger acolytes.

Still, he managed to make trouble just as well.

Today, when Baze returned from his lessons, he was waiting outside his room. He had a book under his elbow and a grin on his face. “Brother Baze,” he greeted cheerfully. 

It had occurred to some of Baze’s temple friends that the boy had a crush on him. 

“Malbus,” Baze corrected him as he fitted the key into the old dorm door.

“Whoa, now that’s sort of forward,” Chirrut chided him, pushing past Baze once the door was unlocked, and sitting on the edge of Baze’s unmade bed, crossing his legs and leaning back. 

Chirrut was twenty five, his black hair sheared short yet visibly soft, and his eyes milky blue as they had always been. He was strong, and it showed even in his silhouette through the robes. His face was boyish and round, even with his strong cheekbones and slender jaw. Baze shook his head. 

“I didn’t invite you in,” Baze said sharply, closing the door behind him and hoping no one saw the boy sneak into his room. What hadn’t occurred to Baze’s friends was that maybe, the crush was mutual. 

“You never do,” Chirrut said, frowning at his book as he flipped through the pages, feeling the corner marks denoting the page number. “It’s quite rude, really.” 

Baze rolled his eyes, sitting on the corner of the bed and pulling off his boots before glancing over at the page Chirrut had settled on. “What do you want?” 

“Elder Bran says I need help on my hymnal.” 

“Why is it that once I became a Guardian, suddenly you’re no good at memorization?” Baze asked, part annoyed, part poking fun. 

Chirrut looked up in Baze’s direction with a slack jaw and innocent face, like he couldn’t follow what Baze was insinuating. “They’ve gotten harder!” 

“Yeah,” Baze returned, unconvinced. 

Chirrut rolled his eyes and returned his focus to the book, his finger tracing one line while he hummed its melody. It was a soft song, with a higher melodic center and light tone. A lesson hymn, full of advice for how to treat loved ones and friends and those you don’t like, too. Chirrut’s voice faltered, the tone dropping off at the wrong place. 

“That’s wrong,” Baze said. 

Chirrut stopped singing abruptly. He looked at Baze with raised brows. 

“Listen,” he said, leaning over to peer at the hymnal in Chirrut’s hand. He sang the line that Chirrut had messed up on. 

“You’re a good singer,” Chirrut said. Baze looked at him, surprised, in time to catch the way he blinked-- slow, deliberate, his eyes remaining hooded as he leaned closer to Baze to show him the next line. He couldn’t help the blush that settled high on his cheeks.  Perhaps he and Chirrut had moved beyond simple ‘crushes’ years ago. “How about that line?” 

Baze swung his legs onto the bed beside himself, between him and Chirrut, and sat criss-cross. Chirrut did the same, their knees loosely pressed together. Before Baze began on the next line, Chirrut’s hands came up to his face, gently finding his jaw and resting his fingertips over Baze’s lips. He’s done this before, claiming it helped him understand how Baze was forming his words while he sang-- though Baze knew for a fact he didn’t need to.

This song was melody-heavy, with frequent breaks in lyrics to give airtime to the meditative deep  _ ‘oooh’ _ s, the sound causing his lips to press gentle kisses to the tips of Chirrut’s fingers without intention. 

Chirrut listened keenly, eyes unfocused where they fell over Baze’s shoulder. His brows were drawn together slightly, head tilted toward Baze. He scooted ever so closer, turning one ear more fully toward Baze and pressing their shins together. His legs were warm even through both of their clothes.

Baze sang the line, and even the next one and Chirrut’s fingers didn’t move from Baze’s mouth. “Give it a try,” Baze said against them. 

Chirrut shot his brows up for a moment, tilting his head back and emphasizing his toothy smile. “Can you do it one more time?” His other hand not on Baze’s mouth cupped the side of Baze’s throat. “I still don’t think I’ve got it.” 

Baze squinted at him, frowning just enough for Chirrut to feel it. 

“Aren’t Guardians supposed to help  _ guide _ monks, brother Baze?” 

Baze frowned deeper.

“If you would only  _ focus _ , you wouldn’t need  _ guidance _ . You may already be a Guardian, if you did.”

Chirrut shrugged. He ran his thumb over the chord in Baze’s throat, and Chirrut knew how unfair that was. Baze shuddered. 

The truth of the matter was, before Baze became an official Guardian, when they were both young monks together, they had often snuck off together. They found every secluded nook and cranny in the temple, and even in the city near the temple’s gates, and would sneak off together to kiss and exchange sweet words. Since Baze became a Guardian himself, he’d been more careful and cautious around their relationship. After all, it  _ was _ Baze’s duty to guide monks in their spirituality. And part of being a monk was vows to relinquish desires of the body. 

Chirrut said, “Or I could give up this monk thing and I wouldn’t have to worry about asceticism.” 

“I don’t want you to do that,” Baze protested against his fingers. 

“Well  _ I  _ want,” Chirrut said, pausing for emphasis, “to kiss you.” 

“You don’t always get what you want,” Baze retorted. “That’s the point of asceticism during monkhood-- developing self-discipline.” 

Chirrut quirked his mouth to the side, frowning and raising his brows. “Seems we’re at an impasse.” He took a deep sigh. “Are you going to help me with this hymn?” 

Baze looked at what line Chirrut’s fingers were lingering over now. It was a string of notes, no lyrics, and Baze couldn’t fault him as his lips pillowed against his fingertips again, his throat vibrating under Chirrut’s palm as he sang. Chirrut closed his eyes, listening with some intent even though Baze had to doubt how closely he was  _ paying attention _ , really. His thumb soothed a circle over the soft skin between Baze’s throat and jaw. Even as Baze glared at him, he leant into the touch. 

Baze’s friends could never even fathom something like this. 

Still, this was all he allowed to happened between them these days. If they had been caught as monks, the worst that could happen was a slap on the wrist--  _ now _ he could be demoted from Guardian, his honorable robes and belts rescinded, his hair shaved short as Chirrut’s again. Monks were only allowed gray uniform robes, their hair and faces shaved clean, their food bland and their attention reserved only for learning the physical, mental and emotional strength necessary for guardianship. 

If Baze were caught with a monk, it would be devastating.

Baze didn’t realize how hard he was leaning into Chirrut’s hand until his song came to an end and Chirrut opened his eyes again, mere inches away from Baze’s. 

“You  _ are _ a good singer,” Chirrut repeated, as if Baze hadn’t believed him the first time. Keeping his fingers straight and flat, Chirrut brushed his fingertips from his lips over Baze’s cheek. Baze swallowed. 

“If you weren’t so obsessed with this chastity thing, I would kiss you right now.” Chirrut teased him with it, tempting and daring him to fall for it. 

Baze blustered, sputtering and leaning back before Chirrut tightened his hand on the back of his neck. His other hand flitted from his cheek and found Baze’s wrist as he flailed away and pulled it back, pressing it to his own throat. He sang the melody Baze just finished, his skin warm and delicate and vibrating slightly under Baze’s palm. 

Baze clammed up-- Chirrut knew the melody, and he knew it  _ well _ . Baze could feel a little swell of outrage in his chest, but it pittered out almost as quick. 

The last note trailed off, and Baze stared at Chirrut, whose eyes popped open with a toothy grin splitting his face. Baze had more than a sneaking suspicion that Chirrut hadn’t needed his help whatsoever. 

“What were you saying, about not always getting what you want?” 

Baze scoffed, glaring at him-- Chirrut couldn’t see it, but Baze knew he could read the displeasure in his voice. 

“Denying ones’ desires helps clear the mind and study the Whills,” Baze said flatly. 

It was Chirrut’s turn to squint at Baze, cocking an eyebrow. “I have difficulty with that, Brother Malbus,” he said, feigning seriousness. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” 

“No, I mean I don’t think you’re right.” 

Baze flinched from that. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, this hymn,” he said, holding up his hymnal, “was about how being loved gives strength, and returning it gives courage.” 

Baze frowned deeper. “Platonic love.” 

“It doesn’t  _ say _ platonic,” Chirrut argued. 

“It doesn’t  _ not _ say platonic.” 

“So my interpretation is as valid as yours.” 

Baze grit his teeth. “Your interpretation is indulgent.” 

“And I think someone can become so comfortable with the rules and boundaries they’ve set,  _ following _ those rules becomes indulgent.” 

Baze laughed. “Are you saying that-- are you saying that I  _ indulge _ in following rules?” He laughed again, leaning back and away from Chirrut, gulping air as he laughed like he’d been holding his breath. 

Chirrut’s brow shot up again. “Or I’m saying you don’t have the courage to admit that you love me, too.” 

Baze’s laughter cut off abruptly. He grit his teeth again, before taking a deep breath and preparing to snipe back, but Chirrut cut him off before he could. 

“You don’t think this self righteousness thing you’ve got is indulgent?” he scoffed. 

Baze sputtered. “You’re one to talk!” 

“I’m self righteous? About knowing for a fact that love is not  _ bad _ or  _ distracting _ from my spirituality?” 

“You need to  _ focus _ on your spirituality. Once you’re a Guardian, we won’t have to worry about others knowing.” 

“ _ I  _ don’t worry about others. And I don’t separate my spirituality from my love-- they inform each other,” Chirrut said haughtily. Baze was hit with just how good of a Guardian Chirrut would make. A much better one than Baze, if this study session was anything to go by. 

And Baze realized Chirrut’s point. Chirrut being a monk didn’t change how Baze felt for Chirrut, or vice versa (though, Baze would still argue it should change how Chirrut  _ expressed _ it), yet Baze always hesitated to return the sentiment. 

Baze could say it if he wanted. He wasn’t scared like Chirrut thought he was. 

And he could prove it. He could say it right now. Chirrut, ever in tune with Baze’s inner machinations, waited expectantly. 

Baze opened his mouth, his jaw against Chirrut’s hand where it still rested on Baze’s throat. 

And his tongue dried up. 

He swallowed, trying to wet his mouth, but still he couldn’t make a sound. 

A knock on the door sent Baze jerking back and away from Chirrut as if he’d been burned. 

“Yes?” Baze asked, clearly louder than necessary, straightening his spine and swinging his legs off the bed and leaving Chirrut with his hands grasping air and his hymnal in his lap, pout on his lips. 

The door was pushed open, tentative, and Sister Kiurn peeked her head inside. 

“Ah, Chirrut, I was looking for you. We have dinner duty together now.”

Chirrut smiled at her-- lips hard pressed and still evidently displeased by Baze-- and swung to his feet off. He glanced against Baze’s dresser as he moved to the door. 

“Where’s your staff, Chirrut?” Kiurn asked. She was some kind of alien, indigenous to a nearby planet. She had sallow bluish skin and big doe eyes, her voice naturally slower and her pitch lower. She turned her doe eyes on Baze, glancing around his room for the staff. But Chirrut hadn’t had it the entire time he was with Baze. 

“Don’t mind that,” Chirrut said sharply, making Baze and Kiurn both wince. He held up his arm, indicating to twine hers with it and lead him to the kitchen. Kiurn shot Baze a short questioning glance before doing so, and they left straight away to the kitchen. 

Baze followed into the doorway of his room, watching until they rounded the corner and out of sight. 

Baze sighed. There may be some truth in what Chirrut said. Baze was comfortable with the rules he set himself. He was comfortable with pushing Chirrut away…

“Brother Baze.” 

Baze nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find Elder Bran, cane in hand and back all but parallel to the floor, from which he gazed up at Baze. 

“Brother Bran,” Baze said hurriedly, bowing and hoping against hope that the Elder hadn’t just seen Baze watch Chirrut walk away and sigh wistfully. 

“Walk with me,” he said. 

Bran was one hundred and six years old, and had resided in the temple since he was a young boy. A few of the non-human Guardians were older than him, but they arrived as teenagers or young adults, after Bran had already been studying as an acolyte.

He wore his hair long, in a handful of odd-sized pony tails all over his head, the chaos of which was clearly visible to anyone over four feet tall, as Bran had developed horrible posture in his old age. He also had a predilection toward long, thick robes, the fabric of which looked like it had been eaten by a moth around the time Bran came of age. He had a collection of such robes. 

Baze frowned at himself as Bran turned away, walking the opposite direction of the kitchen and where Chirrut had disappeared only moments before, and followed the Elder toward what Baze was certain to be the end of his time as a Guardian. 

Bran was known to see through the bullshit, almost prophetic in the way he could read people. He certainly knew of what a bad job Baze was doing guiding Chirrut away from his desires. 

As they rounded a corner, turning toward the temple classrooms, Baze braced himself for the scolding. His shoulders were tensing and he could feel a knot forming up in his stomach, spreading like ice up into his chest. 

A part of him wished Bran would just get it over with as they walked. It was clear that they were going to a classroom, likely Bran’s more forgiving nature allowing Baze some privacy as he retracted Baze’s Guardianship-- or an even worse thought occurred to him, Bran could kick him out of the temple altogether. Was it possible that Bran had known about Chirrut and Baze before this, that he was biding his time to see if Baze would shapen up. 

As quickly as Baze`s acceptance of the possibility that his and Chirrut`s relationship was okay had come upon him, it evaporated as Bran opened a classroom door and indicated for Baze to go in. The classroom was dark and Baze took a seat on one of the meditation pillows, Bran sitting on a bench beside the door, one of the long wooden ones designated for old timers. Bran switched on the lights.

“Chirrut forgot his staff here,” he said, pointing the tip of his cane in the direction of another meditation pillow. Of course, Bran was the instructor who taught from the hymnal. And chances were, Chirrut had brought up the exact conversation he and Baze had just had, but in class in front of his peers and Elder Bran.

“Oh,” Baze said lamely, the wince audible. 

“Do me a favor and take it to him at dinner.”

Baze swallowed and nodded. 

“Tell me, Brother Baze,” he said, both hands resting atop his cane. “How does Chirrut think about you?”

Baze's heart leapt into his throat, beating hard. “I wouldn't know,” he lied.

Bran frowned. “How curious.” He shook his head and smiled. “See, Chirrut has left his staff behind no less than five times so far this month, and I've been trying to figure out why. It had just occurred to me in the hallway just now that it's nearly always when the end of our meditation coincides with the end of your cohorts meditation in the great hall.”

Baze's ears burned. “How peculiar.”

Bran raised a brow. “I think we're past deniability. Do you know how he feels?”

Baze winced. “I've done my best to dissuade his attention.” 

“Oh?”

Of course that seemed flimsy. Bran had just seen the two of them leave Baze's room, Baze watching him go wistfully. Baze stared at his hands. 

“Chirrut is very bright.He often stays after our hymn discussions to ask questions-- when he's not running off to see you, that is. He's obsessed with hymns about relationships, you know. I thought he was worried about his family at first, to be honest.”

“I'm sorry,” Baze sputtered out, unable to listen any longer.

“For what?” Bran asked, genuinely caught off guard. Baze gaped at him. “Chirrut is the brightest I've instructed in a generation. You should find yourself very lucky he has chosen to give his ‘attention’ to you.”

Baze waited for the ‘but,’ for the other foot to drop.

“Just today he lead us on an unexpected discussion of what it really means to forge relationship with the Force. He will make a brilliant teacher when you are both Elders.”

“He said you told him he needed help on his hymns…”

Bran had the decency not to laugh, though barely. 

“I only don’t graduate him from the class because he’s helpful to his peers. Like I said, he’s brilliant.” 

“So,” Baze started hesitantly. “You wanted to talk with me so I could bring him his staff?” 

Bran pursed his lips. “I remember asking if you knew how Chirrut thought of you. I don’t think you gave me an answer.” 

Baze took a deep, steadying breath. “I know he thinks… highly of me.” 

Bran tilted his head to the side. “He thinks highly of me as well, I’d like to think.” Not a good enough answer. 

“He thinks he loves me.” Baze said it as fast as possible, and he could feel his blood curdle in his chest at the admission, his mouth drying further. 

Bran hummed thoughtfully. “So you don’t think it’s true?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You said he  _ thinks _ he loves you.” 

“Well--”    
Bran held up a hand, silencing him. 

“Do you remember hymn 246?” 

Baze nodded instantly. It was the one he and Chirrut were practicing. 

“Do you recall stanza 12?” 

He nodded again. 

“ _ Love feels, thrives, craves, dies. Love breathes, cries, sees, sighs. Love undeniable true intentions hides, but truer love is that which one decides _ .” Bran sung it in his low, raspy voice, and Baze listened to the lines, much more intently than earlier with Chirrut. 

The words were in Old Jedhan, the rhymes smoother than what was attainable in the modern Jedhan tongue. 

“I advise you to think about this,” Bran said after a long silence. He said nothing more, letting the echo of his voice reverberate through the stone room. 

It seemed like Bran thought Baze was mistaken in denying Chirrut’s feelings.  _ Love undeniable true intentions hide, but truer love is that which one decides _ . Baze winced again at the riddle-like line Bran left him with. 

It was a dilemma, then. If Baze were to deny Chirrut as he has been, then he defers to the asceticism that Chirrut has pledged to keep as a monk and there would be no problem. If he were to stop denying it, or welcome it even, then perhaps it would fit the definition of “love undeniable,” which the hymnals denounce as untrustworthy. 

Even with goading from Bran and Chirrut, it still seemed to Baze that it’s best to ignore and deny it, at least until Chirrut passed all of his duans and became a Guardian. 

“Does it not compromise his commitments as a monk to… feel that way?” 

“Chirrut and I have discussed this,” Bran said, stroking his beard. “He posed a question to me that i have been pondering since: how can we have a  _ relationship _ with the Force if not through those around us?” 

“A monk’s duty is to find that relationship from within,” Baze responded reflexively. That had been his argument in the final rites and passages into Guardianship, after all. 

Bran shrugged one shoulder, tilting his head to the side again. “Perhaps that is the way for some monks.” 

Baze took a deep, frustrated breath. 

“Depending on others for one’s communion with the Force is an easy way out.” 

“For those that compassion comes easily. And for those whose compassion is comfortably shallow.” 

Baze stared at him as if he’d burned him. 

“Recite the next stanza of 246.” 

Baze grit his teeth and closed his eyes to focus on recalling it. “ _ Loving another truly is the fruit of life, Giving one fortitude and strength. Being loved by another relieves the soul, A beloved one takes in their love courage and spirit.”  _

Bran had his eyes closed, tapped the end of his cane on the stone floor with satisfaction. “What higher aspiration is there than this, Brother? How can one guide a monk better than to choose to love them?” 

Baze ran his tongue over his teeth, frowning deeply. “So I’m wrong, is what you’re saying.” 

“No, I’m just offering an alternative way to think about it.” Bran grinned, and Baze realized exactly why Bran favored Chirrut so well. Baze could just imagine Bran as a twenty-something, giving someone a headache just the way Chirrut gave Baze. “And besides, perhaps if he were not so distracted by winning your affection, he would study just a little better.” 

Despite himself, Baze cracked a smile at that. 

Bran returned the smile, rising to his feet and turning to the door, leaving Baze where he sat on the pillow. He pulled open the door and, before he left, turned back. “And Brother Baze?” he said with a smile, “Don’t forget the staff.” 

No scolding. No stripping titles or shaving his hair. Baze sat in silent shock after the door closed behind Brother Bran. 

He was still. What an unbelievable twist. The eldest of all the Guardians, who commanded respect above all else. And Chirrut to have all but explicitly discussed his  _ crush _ with Elder Bran. Running out after meditation so quickly that he forgot his staff, not once but  _ five _ times. And, Baze hadn’t even examined why Kiurn had known to look for Chirrut in Baze’s room. 

But on Baze’s behalf, it wasn’t like he had rebuffed Chirrut before he was a Guardian. Baze chose to rebuke him only after he became a Guardian, and had always chosen to return his feelings openly before that. 

All at once, before he realized what he was doing, he jumped to his feet, grabbing the staff from where it lay, and ran for the door. There were three turns in the hallways between the classrooms and the kitchen, and Baze sprinted as fast as he could. His robes whipped behind him, wood soles slapping the polished stones. 

The kitchen door, which was really just a fine textile sheet pinned over the door frame, billowed when Baze came to a sudden stop outside of it. 

Baze braced himself, gripping the staff with white knuckles as he pushed the sheet to the side to peer in. There were a handful of monks preparing various entrees, washing dishes and folding napkins. Chirrut was on the other end of the narrow kitchen, stirring a vat of soup with a huge ladle. 

One of the monks shot a glance toward the door, spotted Baze and immediately whipped her head around toward Chirrut. 

He waded through the crowded kitchen toward Chirrut, self conscious of where he stepped and how fast he moved as nearly every acolyte and monk in the room watched him out of the corner of their eyes. 

He came to a stop a few feet short of Chirrut. 

Chirrut, ever clever and smug, tilted a smile toward him. “Brother Malbus?” 

“You forgot your staff,” Baze blurted out quickly, thrusting the staff in front of him as if Chirrut could see it. He tilted the staff to poke Chirrut in the shoulder. Chirrut grinned and hooked the end of the ladle onto the vat’s rim, grabbing the staff from Baze and leaning it against a bit of wall near his other side. 

Chirrut continued to grin-- and it occurred to Baze that perhaps he had been set up. Chirrut knew exactly where he’d left the staff, and who would fetch Baze to let him know to take it to him. 

Baze was at a loss now for what was going to happen next. He was acutely aware of the other pausing in their work to stare now, and he swallowed thickly. 

“Was there something else?” Chirrut ased, all but innocently. 

Baze stepped in closer to say it more quietly. “Remember the guard tower in the old part of the temple, the one with the loose bricks?” It used to be one of their rendezvous points when they were both monks. Chirrut smiled, knowing exactly the place he meant. He nodded. 

“Meet me there after dinner?” 

Chirrut’s smile bloomed into a splitting grin. 

“Tell me Brother Malbus, do you have courage?” 

Baze glanced at the others, who quickly turned back to their work, pretending they had not been watching with great interest. 

“Perhaps.” 

Chirrut shot a hand out, finding Baze’s arm. His hand paused there, as if remembering they were in a crowded kitchen, and simply squeezed it. 

It hit Baze like a train, just how much affection he really felt for the boy. Onlookers be damned, Baze put his hand on Chirrut’s and leaned in, kissing him sound on the lips. 

Chirrut’s brows shot up, and Baze heard a pan drop somewhere in the kitchen, but he didn’t care. He squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled away, not wanting to ruin the moment until he had to. 

They stood in the silent kitchen for a good ten seconds before Baze cleared his throat, “Well, you’ve got some soup to attend to.” He shuffled a few steps back before Chirrut reacted at all, squeezing his arm one last time. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you after dinner,” he said, his voice more subdued than Baze remembered hearing it. His heart pounded heavy and warm against his chest as he navigated back out to the empty hall. 

Baze took a deep breath. As scary as it was, he loved Chirrut. He could imagine it no other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> i very heavily and shamelessly lifted from the Tao Te Ching.   
> i have always hated writing poetry and i tried so hard not to have to include it but i did it anyway so there


End file.
